with Nicole Cooley
-by Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum
Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum: “Hunger” is a poem largely about
ritual, starting with the baptism of the speaker’s great-grandmother and ending with that wonderful moment of the speaker
setting the table for the dead women in her family and sitting down to record the events that follow. Considering
that this is the first poem of the book, Resurrection, and assuming that the speaker in this poem is you, the poet,
is “Hunger” a poem that serves as a sort-of anthem to the poems to follow; a poem that declares that the writing
of poetry is, in and of itself, a ritual?
Nicole Cooley: I like
that idea of the poem as an anthem! And, yes, I agree with your reading of the poem as linking poetry and
almost as if I were setting a table when I ordered that poem first in the manuscript. I spread out all my poems on the floor
when I ordered the book and just looked at them as visual documents, walked around them, studied them in a different way.
AMK: Many poets
write from the first person. I’m assuming you’re doing the same here. But
I’ve found that this is often a false assumption or that, even if they poet is the speaker, it’s only to a certain
degree--the speaker being a combination of the poet and of a number of other factors, as well, i.e. the
past, other figures in the poem, etc, etc.
I’d be interested to hear your take on point-of-view, not only in this poem
but in contemporary poetry in general.
My second book, after Resurrection, wanted to challenge that idea—the relentless I of contemporary poetry. It
focuses on the Salem witch trials of 1692 and is titled The Afflicted Girls (LSU Press, 2004). Wallace Stevens once said that
“poetry is a scholar’s art,” and this is very true for me. Researching for this book was wonderful, and
it drew me into many communities outside of poetry. I met historians, genealogists, and descendants of those who suffered
in the trials. I’d always been fascinated by the Salem witch trials since I was a child.
Yet, this book, despite
my claiming otherwise, was autobiographical in spirit too. I wrote from the point of view of the lesser known figures in the
trials, but there were personal reasons I chose the figures I chose, the landscapes I described.
I do believe that with each book you write you should take on a different project. For my next book, called Breach
(forthcoming, LSU Press, 2010), I explored something very close to home—literally. The book looks at my family’s
experience during Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath and my own experiences revistiing New Orleans where I grew up and the
Gulf Coast. This book is a new way to look at family history as well as a collective story of a terrible
AMK: I like how this poem moves so quickly through your family history starting with
“the child who will become my great-grandmother” and illustrating in very few words the immigration of your family
to America, the “lamb skinned and strung up…/…Steam [rising] from…the space / between its back
legs,” your mother’s impoverished childhood, and the lifetime of pain they dedicate their lives to. I
think you accomplish this because you make it clear within the first ten lines that the poem acts as an address to your great-grandmother
(By now, at the end of the century, / it’ clear you’re not coming back for us. You’re
not returning / to save us…”). The result is that we don’t expect to learn everything
about these women’s lives in this particular poem because the poem is speaking to someone who only needs small moments
of narrative (and the images connected to that narrative) in order to know what you’re talking about. This
is really interesting because the form instructs the reader to read it not as a poem attempting to tell us all about your
family history but as a poem to one of them, which is very different.. h
poem teach us how to read them?
I think every poem should take you (the reader) someplace new and teach you a new way to envision the world. That is the gift
of poetry—its use of testimony. In her wonderful book The Life of Poetry, poet Muriel Rukeyser talks about the way in
which the reader functions as the witness of a poem. I find that opens up my ideas about language and poetry.
AMK: It would be interesting
to know when you discovered that this was a poem that worked best as an address. Did you spend a lot of
time on the narrative elements of the poem before this idea came into play, or was it something you thought of fairly early?
NC: Much of my writing—maybe all—takes place in revision. I
try to not think too much in a first draft, with the knowledge that I will go back and do that work in revision many, many
The first draft of this poem was awful! As my first
drafts always are. As one of my writing teachers at Iowa said, If you have writers block, lower your standards. Hearing that
was incredibly helpful. I realized that while I may not be capable of writing a good poem on a given day, I can write a bad
one—which then of course might become a better poem in revision or lead me to a new place and a new poem. I love telling
my students this quote. They often look aghast.
The idea of direct address came up later, after about ten revisions when I looked hard at the poem and let go of
what didn’t work. In this poem, I wanted to write something that invoked my great-grandmother as if she were the first
reader—and even speaker—in the book as a way to begin. And I wanted to link her life, which from the outside does
not look extraordinary, though I believe it is, to poetry.
hAMK: There are a number of moments when “Hunger”
takes some Olympic-sized leaps, such as “By now, at the end of the century,” “Again and again the boat crosses
the ocean from Europe,” “If you believe the dead send messages,” and “At night in my own house I lay
/ the table,” to highlight a few. I think they are very well used, slyly moving the narrative forward
but also doing so without any lack of clarity, which is pretty hard to do.
How did you develop this
sort of leap? Is it something you admire in poems and often ask your poems to do? Or
is it something more natural to you as a poet, something more elemental, like images, metaphor, etc…?
NC: I think leaps are what draws me to poetry as a reader and writer. In
fiction—I have published a novel—you have to get characters in and out of rooms, they must eat, sleep etc. In
poetry you are released from much of that. While I love the challenges of fiction, poetry offers different challenges. You
have to bring the reader in and have him/her follow those leaps—whether you do it by image, sound, humor, or form or
That last line, “Listen. I am the one who will tell about it” reminds me a lot of Sharon Olds’
last line in “I go back to 1937.” Did Olds’ poem inform this one in some way?
NC: Yes, I was modeling that line after Olds.
I just taught her book The Dead and The Living in my undergraduate poetry class and was reminded of what a fascinating writer
she is—we think of her work as so narrative but there is much that is surreal in it.
I ask this question because I have a friend who got as master in Mathematics. When it came time to decide
if he wanted to get a PhD, he said that he decided not to because “I’d only make a mediocre Mathematician…I’m
more interested in learning how someone came up with a formula and duplicating their efforts than coming up with my own…”
I immediately found this of interest because he seemed to be saying
that good Mathematicians are required to create something new. Poets obviously have this goal in mind as
well, but I’m not sure it’s all that necessary. After all, what we want is good poems and when
someone does it well, why not use their work as a backdrop for something we’re working on? It eventually
becomes something new not because its entirely original but because it tells its own story or tells its own story in a new
way while borrowing a proven technique. What do you make of this? What standards do you
have for you poems when it comes to this idea of originality?
Originality is so complex. I’m very interested in intertextuality as it has been written about by everyone from Julia
Kristeva to Kathy Acker. In some respect, all writing has already been written. But in another way nothing
has—the combinations of words, the materiality of language, are infinite.
hAMK: Both “Hunger” and “Romance”
immediately engage the reader. I just love how the sisters in “Romance” “light…the
candles” and how that candlelit image of the Virgen de Guadalupe and all that she represents is described as “the
lines of unlucky women [stepping] out from the flame.” How important are the
first few lines of a poem for you?
How much time do you devote to them?
NC: The first lines are
crucial. So often, too, when you begin a poem –when I begin a poem—you are not starting in the right place, but
it takes many revisions to realize that. I feel the same way about the closure of a poem too.
I must admit that I have a hard time understanding exactly what’s going on with this poem. I think
that when you light the candles, they transform from duplicate Virgen de Guadalupe candles to images of your four aunts.
But, then again, I’m never quite sure if I’m supposed to know something more about her, the Virgen de Guadalupe.
Don’t get me wrong, no matter how may times I read the poem I’m nowhere near lost, but I’m always
slightly concerned that I’m not entirely understanding it. Rather than ask you to
confirm that I’ve understood the basic narrative of the poem, I’m curious about how you approached the subject
matter of this poem. Did you expect people to already be familiar with the Virgen de Guadalupe?
Did you expect people to have to look her up to understand the deeper metaphor of the poem? If so,
did you expect they would look her up if they needed to? If they chose not to, what did you hope they would
take away from the poem?
NC: How much information a reader should know
is always interesting to think about. For myself, I love poems that teach me about things I didn’t know about.
I learned about the 1929 Gauley Bridge Mining Disaster from reading Muriel Rukeyser’s The Book of The Dead.
I learned about the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire from reading Chris Llewellyn’s book Fragments from the Fire. I
do like work that leads me to the dictionary that makes me seek out something new.
“Romance” makes use of a number of imaginative moments: the women stepping of the flame, the “line of dolls
cut from the same piece of paper,” bathing in the crystal salts, etc… I like these moments
not only because I love the imagination but also because it places us so clearly within the mind of this young girl on the
train, and we are taken from the one place we actually are into another place that, otherwise, we’d never have gone. I
think this idea of “being taken somewhere” is really important because, in the end, poetry hopes to entertain
its readers and this sort of escapism seems to be one of the more natural aspects of entertainment. What
is your view on this side of poetry? Should it attempt to entertain in some way? Was
entertainment at all a concern of yours as you composed this poem?
I think poems should entertain, frighten, please, flatter, make us rethink and reframe, save the world, even.
Because that is what’s true to the human experience. I like a poetry that, to paraphrase Whitman, can “contain